He Knows
by Thingygazinga
Summary: Seriously. Seriously. Lance knew that this couldn't possibly be a good idea.


Lance knew heartbreak.

He knew it like tears, like punctures. Little lines left ignored, scooting away after confessions, carnations between forefinger and thumb, never enclosed into open palms. He knew it like broken parts struggling for an anchor to lean on, to pour oneself over, to not feel the empty space; he knew it like loving too much when the other only squinted at him from the top of the tree, Everest, _space._

Lance _knew_ heartbreak. It made up his life more than he would care to admit, care to say out loud, care to accept. The first time, it had hurt, stung, a shot to a baby that had him wailing in his sister's arms as he watched the girl with cool purple-dyed hair skipping off like she hadn't just raised a knife and carved out the first experience.

In the end, it didn't matter whether or not Lance cared. In the end, it was always the other. He was the instigator, they were the end. (sometimes he wondered if he set his standards too low, they set their standards too high. But, unlike the monotonous lesson in his seventh grade science class, both were unable to diffuse into balance, puzzle into the natural world.)

In the end, it was always a needle to an ax.

He liked to joke it off, he liked to go home, smile and crack a pun like somehow he could convince himself that all was fine, he didn't like them that much, really, it was his fault that his teenage hormones were working overdrive.

Really.

Sometimes.

Maybe.

It didn't help that the first time he really fell, really tumbled into the thorns and vines of a dead end, it had been for a boy. It had been for a boy, and Lance had tottered into the situation with the legs of a doe and naivety because _how unorthodox._

Needless to say, girls were safer to him. Girls didn't shatter glass completely, and girls weren't _unorthodox._

The thing is, _Lance knew heartbreak._ He was a veteran, an old soldier that could nod his head, smile, and shout out tales for the youngsters, whispering warnings, declaring advice of his time on the desolated field with no one around to depend on but himself. Except, really, sometimes, maybe, Lance hated it. He wanted to lean, wanted to fill the empty space, wanted to _be_ with someone so bad, it hurt his chest.

It was stupid, really.

It was really stupid, actually.

And, leaning on Red's huge metal claw, gloved hand on the glowing turquoise bits, Lance repeated the mantra, repeated it until he himself forgot the words and instead let it stream unconsciously, repeated, repeated, and repeated.

 _Lance knew heartbreak. He hated it. He hated it. He hated it._

Yet, there he was.

Standing.

Staring.

Thinking, _freaking quiznack, I'm gonna hate myselfI hate myselfI hate this_ because Keith's hair was pulled into a tiny ponytail, and Keith's eyes were wide and violet, and they're _weird,_ okay, and Keith is . . . there. There was red on his red, and his shoulders were tense and pulled up to his ears as he stood in front of the planet's ruler, acting all the parts of a liberator who didn't know law from prohibition.

And Keith is Keith, and Lance is Lance, and they are so similar it's almost funny, but they're so different it's almost strange, and they're so chemically incompatible they're like different planets, but they're so harmonious that . . .

That it made Lance simply think that _what if,_ led to that _refusal,_ led to that _heartbreak._

It was stupid, really.

It was really stupid, actually.

But Lance stood, armor off and in the washer, arms crossed over his stomach, feet planted on the observation deck, watching as the world rotated, throbbing with the pulse in his head that screamed at him to sleep, but his mind was too hyperactive, too aware, and he didn't think he could move (his heart is weighing him down, palpitating like a hummingbird) because next to him is the violet-eyed, strange, dangerous boy.

Keith might just be the most _secluded_ human being Lance has ever met, more so than just a shack in the desert. The dude was alone, and he dealt with it better than most others Lance had met, most others Lance was.

He was _insufferable._ They were possibly the worse pair, the worst joke, like one of those cracked puns that fell short because of hidden tears, and that's just one of many metaphors that signaled Lance to _not try._

Keith was strange, Keith was _unorthodox_ , Keith was heartbreak.

(But his hands were warm, accepting like never before, and his violet eyes were blue and red and Lance has never seen possibility this bright.)

* * *

 **I HAVE FALLEN HEAD FIRST INTO VOLTRON TRASH. AND IT'S VALENTINE'S DAY. AND I SHOULD PROBABLY BE DOING HOMEWORK AND HOLY CRAP DID YOU GUYS SEE THE SEASON 5 TRAILER I'M SCREAMING. Heh, I feel like all my stories start off and end the same, but enjoy some Langst! Heh. Heh. Isn't it sad that we usually put out favorite characters in the worst of situations? I feel like I might have 1000000 mistakes BUT YANNO WHAT. This is actually the first short story I've written in a while. AND A VOLTRON ONE AT THAT. Seriously, I am literally capsing everything, my thoughts are all over the place, how am I surviving jesh?**

 **BUT HAVE A SWELL DAY AND ALL THAT MERPH THINGYGAZINGA OUT WAHAHAHA WHAT AM I TYPING.**


End file.
